Alan Opie portrays Leon Klinghoffer in “The Death of Klinghoffer” (The New York Times)

The prologue of the story of Noah actually begins at the end of last week's Torah portion. Parashat Bereishit ends with God regretting the creation of human beings. The text tells us, "Adonai saw how great was human wickedness on earth and how every plan of the human heart was nothing but evil all the time" (Genesis 6:5-6). God had a simple solution to the problem. Drown them all.

Something must have happened, though, during the Flood. God must have had a change of heart.

Before the end of the Torah portion (Noach), God says, "Never again will I doom the earth because of human beings, since the devisings of the human heart are evil from youth" (Genesis 8:21). Quite a turnaround. First God says that human beings must be killed because they are wicked, then God says that they must not be killed because they are wicked. How do we explain that?

We can say that God experienced a moment of insight about human beings. (You can hardly blame God for needing some time to figure us out. We are a difficult brood.) God realized that, as imperfect beings with limited knowledge of the universe and the result of our actions, there is a need to deal with us compassionately. God realized that death and killing does not work as a response to every ill and every fault. God might also have realized that drowning us all would be unjust. Why should the innocent die for the sins of the wicked?

I suppose that, from God's perspective, none of us is entirely innocent. We all have faults. We all have made mistakes. We are all complicit, in one way or another, with the injustice of the human condition. God realized, though, and God now teaches us, that it is wrong to inflict death upon people who try to live good lives and do their best to live with respect for those around them, even if we sometimes fall short of our highest aspirations.

At the end of the Flood story, God gives some new instructions to all of humanity about how to treat each other. God says, from now on, "There shall be a reckoning for human life of each person for his or her fellow human being." Enough with the killing. No more needless death. (Genesis 9:5).

I've been thinking about that lesson this week. It applies, I believe, to any discussion about the controversy over the opera, The Death of Klinghoffer,by John Adams, and the current production at the Metropolitan Opera in New York City.

Since the day my grandfather took me to see a production of Carmen at the Met when I was nine years old, I have been a fan of grand opera. I also love and appreciate contemporary art music, especially the work of minimalist composers like Steve Reich, Philip Glass and John Adams. I keep a recording of Adams' Nixon in China, which I love to listen to on long trips, on my iPhone.

But I cannot listen to his Klinghoffer.

There is a reason that people are standing in protest outside of the Met every night that Klinghoffer is performed, and I think it should have something to do with this week's Torah portion. The opera tells the story of the Achille Lauro, the ill-fated cruise ship that was hijacked by four men representing the Palestinian Liberation Front in 1985. On the second day of the hijacking, the men shot an American Jew, Leon Klinghoffer, in the head and dumped his body overboard.

Klinghoffer was a 69-year-old man bound to a wheelchair. He was murdered for no reason other than that he was a Jew. Adams' opera attempts to tell the story of the Achille Lauro in a way that gives even and equal treatment to the plight of the Palestinian people and to the Jewish people by allowing both Palestinian and Jewish characters to express their perspectives.

That seems laudable. I think, though, that it entirely misses the point. That is the reason why this opera should be protested wherever it is performed.

The story of the Achille Lauro is not the story of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. Adams and his librettist Alice Goodman (a woman who converted from Judaism and is now an Anglican priest) got it completely wrong.

The story of the Achille Lauro is the story of the murder of an innocent man – who had nothing to do with the relationship between Israel and the Palestinians. What is more, he was murdered by terrorists who did nothing to benefit the Palestinian people. It is the story of human beings who failed to understand one of the fundamental teachings that every human being is supposed to understand. Enough with the killing. No more needless death.

Klinghoffer's murderers were not, as the opera supposes, basically good people who were driven to an extreme act by the suffering of their people. That is a lie. The intentional, willful and calculated murder of an innocent man served no purpose. It did nothing and could do nothing to benefit anyone other than the terrorists themselves. They only sought to give themselves an international spotlight and to aggrandize their own power. If anything, the incident set back the cause of the Palestinian people by justly infuriating those on both sides of the conflict who love peace and justice.

The fundamental flaw in Adams' opera is that it attempts to equate the suffering of Jews and of Palestinians with a situation that had no equivalencies. Leon Klinghoffer posed no threat to the terrorists and had done nothing to harm them. He was a victim of hatred, pure and simple. Whatever you may think about the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians, the choice to use the incident of the Achille Lauro as a metaphor is deeply flawed and intensely offensive to an idea of morality. That is what needs to be said loudly and clearly at every performance of Klinghoffer.

The music might be stirring, and the intentions of the composer and author may have been good, but the opera fails to meet the basic standard of decency that should prevail over all. There is no glory in murder. There is no equivalency between murderers and their innocent victims. There shall be a reckoning for human life.

This is the talk I gave tonight at Temple Sinai of Cranston, Rhode Island, on the occasion of my installation with Cantor Wendy Siegel as the congregation's new clergy team.

First of all, I want to say thank you. My first debt of gratitude is always to my parents, Dan and Monique Goldwasser, who are here this evening. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for everything.

Next, I am grateful to this entire congregation for bringing me to Temple Sinai, for your faith in me, and for giving me the incredible privilege of being your co-spiritual leader. I am indebted to you forever.

Thank you to Remmie Brown, our Cantor Emeritus, for bringing, not only your gift of music on this occasion, but also your history of leadership and genuine love of the members of Temple Sinai over your 34 years of service to this sacred community. Thank you to Dotty Swajian, Irene Fordon-Abbott, Sandy Maldavir, Ellen Rappoport, Sherry Feldman and many others, who have worked so hard to organize tonight’s event. Thank you Sue Oclassen for leading the Cantorial Search Committee that brought Cantor Wendy to us. Thank you Steve Hirsch for leading the Rabbinic Search Committee and, then, hardly missing a beat, for leading the Transition Committee that is now helping Wendy and me become the most effective leaders we can be for Temple Sinai. Thank you to Ellie Wasser and Ellen Jordan, for being my partners as President and First Vice-President, for your honesty, integrity, hard work, and, most of all, for your love of this congregation. In absentia, I also want to thank my friend Rabbi Peter Stein for so graciously handing me the reins of Temple Sinai. As many of you know, Rabbi Stein and I have known each other since we were students together at Hebrew Union College in New York City. I am deeply grateful for his inspired leadership of this community over the past 11 years. It is always wonderful for a rabbi to step into a new pulpit, but it is even more so when coming into a congregation that is healthy, joyful, inspired and filled with a thirst for Jewish learning. Temple Sinai is all of those things, and great thanks are due to Rabbi Stein for making it and keeping it that way. That, I think, is the best gift that one rabbi can give to a colleague. Thank you, Peter.

Of course, I also want to thank my friend and colleague, Rabbi Alan Flam, who generously accepted the invitation to officiate at today’s installation. (On his birthday, no less. Happy Birthday, Alan.) I am indebted to you for the thoughtfulness, caring and commitment that you have brought to this occasion. Rabbi Flam and I have known each other since we met at a rabbinic retreat in 2002 and I have long admired his deep spirituality and commitment to social action. In the three months since I came to Rhode Island, he has become a trusted friend, advisor and coffee drinking buddy at Olga’s Cup and Saucer. Thank you, for your kind words, your penetrating insights, your good humor and your friendship.

And, now, for the rebuttal.

Inevitably, the question is raised: Why do we need an installation service? You have attended High Holy Days services with me and Cantor Wendy. We have enjoyed many Friday night and Saturday morning services together over the past three months. This past week, we danced with the Torah scrolls on Simchat Torah. Your children have learned with us in Religious School. If an “installation” is the time when the delivery truck pulls up to the house to deliver the new appliances, surely Cantor Wendy and I already have been wired in and connected. Aren’t we already happily installed as this congregation’s side-by-side washing machine and dryer? Well, yes and no. We have gotten to know you, and you have gotten to know us, but we still have a long way to go before anyone regards us as fixtures here. This installation service can be regarded as both the “end of the beginning,” and the beginning of the next phase of the process in which we form a lasting covenant as congregation and clergy.

It is altogether fitting that we have waited until now to have this installation service. If we had done this when Cantor Wendy and I first arrived, it would have been a ritual in which we would have greeted people we did not know and the congregation would have greeted us as likable, smiling strangers. Last July, an installation could have been very lovely, very sweet, … but it would not have been very real. By waiting until we all have had a chance to get to know each other, we are making this installation one that has real meaning. Tonight, we can make the formal declaration that this rabbi, this cantor, and this community belong together in mutual understanding, respect and joy. As the bridegroom and bride said on their wedding night: I’m glad we waited.

Looking back at the last three months, I see the beginning of a promising future to complement this congregation’s brilliant past. Temple Sinai was founded 56 years ago by a group of ten Jewish families that wanted to create a home for the newly developing Jewish community in the suburbs of the West Bay. They founded the congregation to give their children a place to learn our tradition and to celebrate lifecycle events. They founded it to provide a place for Jewish Rhode Islanders to come together for meaningful worship and social gathering. They founded it so that, together, they could make Jewish values come to life with acts of tzedakah and tikkun olam.

I see the persistence of that original vision today in the joy on our children’s faces in our Temple’s religious and Hebrew schools. At t’filah, on Tuesday afternoons, the kids practically fall over each other to volunteer to help lead different parts of the service. Believe me when I tell you that such enthusiasm for Hebrew School does not exist in every congregation. What we have here is special, and we owe great thanks to our marvelous teachers and to our Education Director, Toby Koritsky, for making it so.

I see the original vision of this congregation still going strong when I hear the singing at every Shabbat service. This is a community that really “gets” the idea that worship is not just a dry ceremony to be completed before attacking the brownies at the Oneg. No, this is a congregation that worships with joy and spirit. When we hear the voices of the congregation together in song, we become more than the sum of our parts. We are spiritually strengthened by being together and we find deeper levels of connection to God, community and ourselves when we come to pray with one another here.I see the original vision of this congregation still going strong when I see the volunteers, young and old, who come each month to make hundreds of sandwiches to deliver to Harrington Hall homeless men's shelter. I see it in the enthusiasm and sense of purpose with which people brought thousands of pounds of food and toiletry items to our High Holy Days services to donate to West Bay Community Action.The greatest promise, though, that I see in Temple Sinai is not to be found in any education program, worship service, or social action project. The greatest promise and the greatest asset of this congregation is its people. You are warmly welcoming, not only to a new cantor and new rabbi, but to every person who walks into this building. I have seen it in the way that you greet newcomers and the way that you make everyone feel that they belong here. You are tremendously generous and giving. I have seen it in the way that our congregation’s leaders and volunteers devote themselves to this community as a labor of love, and also in the way you, our members, support this congregation financially. You are joyful in your Judaism. I have seen it in the way you rise to every challenge I offer to study, worship, sing and dance our tradition together with delight. If we hold on to those qualities, there is nothing that we cannot do together. I said earlier that tonight’s installation service can be seen as “the end of the beginning” of the relationship between the congregation and its new clergy team, and that it is the beginning of the next phase of the transition. I would like to take some time tonight to talk about where I see Temple Sinai going in that next phase – the challenges that stand before us as we continue to remain true to our original vision.

In the next year, I would like to see our commitment to informal youth education deepen. We already have begun that work by reviving our two youth groups, CRAFTY and CRAFTY Junior, thanks largely to the work of Rick Cohen, the chair of our Youth Committee, and Adam Cohen, our Youth Advisor. We also are fortunate to be among the regional congregations that supports a very successful BBYO group. Temple Sinai has a culture that is highly supportive of Jewish camping and teen trips to Israel. We need to make sure that we continue all of these programs to high levels of success. Our future, and, in truth, the future of North American Judaism, depends on our ability to keep our young people engaged with Judaism and the Jewish community beyond becoming b’nei mitzvah.

In the coming years, I would like to expand our social action programs here at Temple Sinai and seek greater involvement from Temple members. Cranston is not the same city it was when Temple Sinai started 56 years ago. We were founded as a “suburban” congregation, but we are increasingly part of an urban landscape that has needs and difficulties that are common to most American cities. Not far from our Temple’s front doors, there are families that feel insecure about their ability to put food on the table. There are families here that are stressed out about giving their children a good start in life. If we take the time to get to know our neighbors and work to make life better for us all, we will be rewarded not only by knowing that we have done some good for others – we also will be rewarded by feeling more integrated and connected to the community and the world around us.

This year at Temple Sinai, I would like to see us explore new ways to further energize our worship services, particularly through music. Our Temple is gifted with marvelous musicians. Cantor Wendy leads us in song with her beautiful voice and exuberant style. Raymond Buttero, our keyboard accompanist, gives us so much of his heart and so much of his top-caliber, conservatory-trained talent. Dr. Joel Gluck and all of the members of Shireinu, our amazing all-volunteer chorus, make our services sparkle with heartfelt, joyful music. And the enthusiasm for music in this congregation extends all the way to the last row of the pews. We are a congregation that loves music and loves to sing. Working together, we can try out more contemporary melodies and new instruments that will appeal both to our long-time members and to younger families. The world of Jewish worship music is always growing and changing. We can decide which new settings best complement the music we already cherish. We have made, and we will continue to make, beautiful music together.

Finally, I also would like to deepen our congregation’s connection and commitment to the State of Israel. By the time that this year’s b’nei mitzvah students graduate from college, Israel likely will be home to a majority of all the Jews in the world. Think about that. Here in the 21st century, a strong connection to the State of Israel is indispensable for maintaining a strong Jewish identity – if for no other reason than that Israel is where most of the world’s Jews soon will be. A congregational trip to Israel in 2015 or 2016, one that focusses on families, would be a blast. It also would be a chance for us to set the tone for a congregation that is ready to face the challenges of the 21st century.

On Rosh Hashanah, I said that we are all in a relationship now – Cantor Wendy, me, and you, the members of the congregation. When rabbis, cantors and congregations enter into new relationships, they usually do so with a bit of trepidation, but also with a lot of hope. In all humility, I want to tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity you have given me to serve this community. I have great hopes for our future together and I regard the responsibility of being your spiritual leader as a sacred trust. I promise you my every effort to make myself worthy of your trust. Thank you for being here tonight. Thank you for being part of Temple Sinai’s journey into its future, filled with the values and vision that make this a sacred community.

I am embarrassed to admit that, three months after moving, I still have unopened boxes sitting on the floor of my new home. I suppose I have the excuse of my new job keeping me busy, but the reality is that I have not been eager to open those last few boxes. I am a little bit frightened of what I will find in them.

This week, I did bring myself to opening yet another box and found in it the contents of a bureau drawer that my wife and I call the "old tech" drawer. This is the place where, over the years, we have accumulated the bits of technology – cell phones, music players, their accessories and other gadgets – that we no longer use. I suppose I also have to admit that my wife and I are gadget lovers, so we do have a lot of "old tech."

This definitely was one of the boxes that I was fearful about finding. It was a rat's nest of power adapter cords, earphone cords, card reader cables and USB cables. The thing that really gave me pause, though, were the items that I had long since forgotten that I even owned: The portable keyboard for a Palm Pilot, the dashboard GPS unit, the bulky Bluetooth earpiece.

Why should such items cause me embarrassment? It is not because they are old and have been replaced by slimmer, smaller and more capable devices. Rather, it is because I remember how, long ago, I was so much in love with these … things.

I remember how each device seemed so helpful, important and cool when I bought it. Looking at them now, I realize that I had put far too much faith in the ways that I imagined that would change my life. And, now, looking at my current collection of devices, I realize that I am still engaged in this silly self-delusion. My smart phone, laptop and tablet are all just things, too, that will soon fade away into some drawer or another.

This is what the holiday of Sukkot is supposed to do to us. It is supposed to remind us that, not only is our stuff subject to obsolescence, but that many of the things we imagine give us status, power and comfort in life are really transitory. The cult of "newness" that our society worships is nothing new and nothing lasting. Truly, "there is nothing new under the sun" (Ecclesiastes 1:9). Like the roof of the sukkah, it can all be blown away with a good gust of wind. How embarrassing.

As we say goodbye tonight to Sukkot for another year, I try to remember to put my faith in the things that really last – sacred relationships, sacred memories, sacred learning and sacred love – and not just in things.

It is instructive that the primary mitzvah of Sukkot is not to build a sukkah, but, rather, to dwell in a sukkah. It goes without saying that the mitzvah cannot be accomplished unless somebody takes the time to put up the poles, attach the walls, and cover the roof with branches, leaves and timbers. However, the point of the sukkah is not the experience of making it. The point is being in it.

The history of this temporary hut is shrouded in some mystery. According to the Torah, it is a remembrance of the travels of the Israelites through the wilderness after the exodus from Egypt (Leviticus 23:42-43). According to historians and biblical scholars, its origins are probably as a shelter used during the harvest in ancient Israel. For us, though, the sukkah serves as a spiritual palace – a place to contemplate what is truly temporary and what is truly permanent in our lives. The sukkah is a haven from our obsession with making and getting stuff – our achievements, our reputation and our elaborate toys. Sitting inside a sukkah, one is aware that all of these things can get blown away with a good gust of wind.

What I love most about this holiday is just sitting in the sukkah. Its four walls define the perimeter of an alternate universe. Time does not exist inside the sukkah – there is only now. Sitting in the sukkah, the sound of the birds chirping is louder and the chill of the autumn breezes is more refreshing.

Inside the sukkah, all of our conceits about our prized possessions seem ridiculous. Perhaps this is why the rabbis said that we should bring our "beautiful vessels" and "beautiful couches" into the sukkah (B. Sukkot 28b). They wanted you to look at your antique chaise longue and your Chinese vase as they sit in your backyard under a roof of pine branches – moist from the rain and stained from the grass – and they wanted you to hear yourself say, "What, am I nuts?"

Yes, you are. Inside the sukkah you know that nothing is permanent. We are here now, and soon we will be gone. We are triumphant now, and soon we will be defeated. We are asleep now, and soon we will be awake. To everything there is a time, and a season for every experience under heaven. In the sukkah, all of those times and seasons run together into one undifferentiated moment. Sitting in sukkah is taking an adventure through space and time – or, perhaps, an adventure through the annulment of space and time.

This is the sermon I gave on Yom Kippur morning at Temple Sinai in Cranston, Rhode Island.

Two weeks ago, I got a bit of a thrill when two people I know from different places were mentioned in the same story in the New York Times. However, as I read the story a little chill went down my spine. And I imagine that the same chill was felt by many other congregational rabbis who saw the story. The article described how my colleague Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum, the senior rabbi of a Reform congregation in New York City, offered a prayer from the bimah this summer that included the names of Israeli soldiers and Palestinian children killed in the Gaza War. According to the Times, that prayer led to the angry resignation from the congregation of a board member who disapproved of the inclusion of the Palestinian children in the prayer. He did not go quietly, either. He posted his resignation letter on Facebook and accused Rabbi Kleinbaum of spreading propaganda for Hamas. A few other members joined him in resigning. If that is not sobering enough, the Times article went on to describe an opposite situation – the one faced by my friend, Rabbi Ron Aigen, the Reconstructionist rabbi of a congregation in Montreal. He gave a sermon this summer in which he described the high ethical standards used by the Israeli Defense Forces during the Gaza War to protect innocent civilians. As a result of this sermon, a member of Rabbi Aigen’s congregation – one who had not even attended the service at which Rabbi Aigen gave the sermon – resigned her membership and said that the synagogue was no longer a place where criticism of Israel could be voiced.

You can understand why I and other rabbis are a bit nervous talking about Israel to their congregations, let alone on Yom Kippur. I know both of these rabbis. Rabbi Kleinbaum is not naive about Hamas and Rabbi Aigen is no hawk. I might have offered exactly the same prayer as Rabbi Kleinbaum and the same sermon as Rabbi Aigen. I agree with them both. We should remember all of the victims of war, including Palestinian children. We should praise Israel’s efforts to protect lives and to thwart Hamas’ efforts to use civilians as human shields.

But, to talk about Israel at all these days, rabbis risk angering one end or the other of the political spectrum of North American Jews, or both ends at the same time. A rabbi who is just starting with a new congregation – just starting to form relationships with its members – would have to be crazy not to know that you cannot talk about Israel from the pulpit on Yom Kippur. Well, here goes, anyway.

I cannot not talk about Israel during the High Holy Days this year. Israel is too important to us, the Gaza War this summer was too painful, and the ongoing conflicts that threaten Israel’s future will have a profound effect on our future. We have to try to come to terms with what Israel means to us now.

I know that I am likely to say a few things today about Israel that might rub some of you the wrong way. I don’t see any way around that. Even calling Israel a “Jewish State” has become controversial in some Jewish quarters. All I can ask is that you listen. Agree if you will – disagree if you will – but please give me a chance. We have to be willing to take some risks or we will never have an honest conversation about Israel … and we desperately need to have honest conversations about Israel.

Let me tell you about what I experienced this summer.

The Gaza War was deeply challenging and upsetting for me. The kidnapping of three Israeli boys, Naftali Fraenkel (16 years old), Gilad Shaer (16 years old), and Eyal Yifrah (19 years old) shook me deeply. I imagined the terror faced by their parents and the anguish of an entire nation.

The nearly two weeks of Operation Brothers Keeper that followed the kidnapping also troubled me. The stated purpose of the operation was to search for the boys, but it seemed that the sweep through Palestinian communities, neighborhoods, and homes, was also meant to intimidate the Palestinian population. It also seemed to serve as an excuse for Israel to re-arrest the leaders of Hamas in the West Bank who had been released just a few months earlier as part of the negotiations with the Palestinians. To Palestinians, I thought, the operation would be seen as evidence of Israel’s insincerity and untrustworthiness in any negotiation.

When the announcement was made that the bodies of the three boys had been found, I experienced too many emotions to name – grief for the boys, anger against the murderers, sorrow for the parents, despair that the conflict would never end, resentment against those who cheered the news, fear for Israel’s future, and heartbreak over how often history seems to repeat itself. Then, just two days later, a new horror. Mohammed Abu Khdeir, a 16-year-old Palestinian boy, was kidnapped by three Israelis, taken to a forest, beaten and burned alive. Now, I would have to add shame to the list – shame that a Jew could do such a thing. How could my people lower themselves to such acts of terror?

The events that followed could have been written in a script even before they unfolded. Prime Minister Netanyahu denounced the Israeli murderers as terrorists – but a few far-right-wing Israelis expressed support for the revenge killing. Palestinians rioted. Israel took military action against Hamas, whom it blamed for the original kidnappings. The already intolerable rocket attacks against Israel from Gaza intensified. Israel began an air campaign to take out the rocket launch-sites and the militants who commanded them. But Hamas continued their rockets, fired from neighborhoods where Palestinian civilians would serve as human shields, and aimed at Israeli civilians – a double violation of international law.

There was a frightening and growing death toll of Palestinians, among them a heartbreaking number of Palestinian children. Many thought Israel's military response was excessive and heavy-handed. Meanwhile, the battle in the air and on the ground was paralleled by another battle in the media, in which each side tried to convince the world that it was the true innocent victim.

The only unexpected wrinkle in this latest round of warfare was the discovery of a network of tunnels constructed by Hamas from Gaza into Israeli territory, with the clear intention to be used to attack Israeli towns and to kill and kidnap more Israelis.

The final outcome? The stakes have been raised once again. We can count on more long-range rockets from Gaza in the future that will reach Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. The attack tunnels surely will be rebuilt. The Israeli and Palestinian public are more convinced than ever that the other side does not really want peace and never can be trusted.

Truly, this summer has tested us. The emotions have been intense. No matter what your political views of the Middle East, if you have followed events closely, you have known red-hot anger and bone-chilling fear. How does Jewish tradition and Jewish values inform the way that we respond to such an emotional roller-coaster? It begins with three simple words: Hope, Compassion and Justice.

Our tradition commands us to hope, even in the midst of a grim and dire reality. This is what Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav taught when he said, “Never despair! Never! It is forbidden to give up hope!" (Likutei Moharan II:78).

We are obliged to defy darkness. We must rail against the fatalism that says that there is nothing that we can do. We must dedicate ourselves to declaring that the world can be – must be – better. I know how easy it is to think and to say, “The Arabs will never accept Israel,” and, “There can never be peace in the Middle East,” I recognize the very real history and present reality that makes hoping for a peaceful future seem difficult, even painful. But I also believe that we are not permitted to give up hope. We must still strive for peace, and that means that we must contemplate what we are willing to give up to reach a negotiated settlement. I hope for the day when both Israeli and Palestinian leaders will be willing to do so, too.

Our tradition teaches compassion, both for others and for ourselves. Last night, I talked about fear. We know that if we allow our fears alone to rule us, we will make bad choices. We will have no compassion and we will see only enemies and threats all around us. We will perpetuate our own suffering, even when there are opportunities to get out of the ongoing cycle of attack and counter-attack.

If we truly and compassionately believe that all human beings are created in the image of God, then we will listen for the voices of the Palestinians who are compassionate to our suffering (they do exist), and we will be willing to consider their overtures and opportunities for de-escalating the conflict. If we believe that we are created in God’s image, we will exercise self-compassion and forgive ourselves for the hormone-driven instinct to assume the worst about our enemies. Our tradition teaches us to work for justice. The Torah commands, “Tzedek, tzedek tirdof,” “Justice, justice you shall pursue” (Deuteronomy 16:20). If that commandment means anything, it must mean justice for everyone – Israel and the Palestinians both.

Justice for Israel means the right to live without the constant fear of rocket fire overhead and terror tunnels below. Justice for Israelis means the right for their nation to exist just like any other nation of the earth. If the French have the right to live in France and the Japanese have the right to live in Japan, the Jews should have the unquestioned right to live in the land that the Romans named “Iudaea.” That’s where our name comes from, and that is where we come from.

And there also must be justice for the Palestinians. They, too, have a long history of living in the land we call Israel. That must be respected, too. Palestinians have a right to freedom of movement and freedom to build their own homes without intimidation. They have a right to live peaceful lives if they are willing to live peacefully with their neighbors. In the end, I believe that supporting justice for the Palestinians is the best way to secure peace and security for Israel. With a just and mutually agreed upon settlement to the conflict, the Palestinians would become the masters of their own fate and would become responsible for governing themselves peacefully and competently. For Israel, a separate Palestinian state would mean an end to the moral impossibility of occupying and subjecting another people. It would mean clear and established borders. It would mean that Israel could remain a true democracy without giving up its identity as a Jewish state. It cannot happen unless both sides are willing, but pursuing that vision is the pursuit of justice.

Am I being too idealistic in the way I image that the conflict can be resolved? Am I being a hopeless dreamer? Maybe I am. But my idealism and hope are informed by the fact that Israel itself is an improbable dream that came to reality only because of people’s vision and idealism. If there can be such a thing as a return to our homeland after 2,000 years of exile, if the world’s most endangered people can survive and thrive in the world’s most dangerous place, then I think there is still room for another miracle – the miracle of peace.

So often, I hear congregants ask me what they can do to help Israel. They want to know how they can put their Jewish values to work for Israel. They want to know, also, how they can heal the tumult of emotions that pull us in different directions when we think about Israel. I want to suggest three things:

1) Keep engaged with Israel in your life. Be willing to talk with friends and family, Jews and non-Jews, about Israel and how you feel about it. Be willing to learn about the issues and conflicts in Israeli society, and don’t be satisfied with the caricature of Israel you see on the nightly news. If you have kids in our Religious School, know that we have made Israel a major focus of our curriculum this year. Ask your children about what they are learning about Israel. Put a map of Israel up in your home and let your kids show you the location of the cities they are studying. Give Israel a place and a presence in your life.

2) Make a commitment to vote in the World Zionist Congress elections in 2015. The Congress meets every four or five years and is the highest decision-making body of world Jewry. The outcome of the elections will determine how funding and resources from around the world are used to support Israel. Delegates to the Congress will make important decisions regarding gender and religious equality in Israel and the efforts for lasting peace and security in the region. When you came into the Sanctuary today, you received a card to pledge to vote for ARZA, the Zionist organization of Reform Judaism, in the election. Please fill it out and leave it here today so we can mail your card together with everyone else’s.

3) Go to Israel. There is nothing that will feed your Jewish soul, nothing that will teach your children what it means to be a Jew, and nothing that will support Israel more than a trip to Israel. Whether it is your first time or your twentieth, your trip to Israel will deepen your perspective, open your heart, and change your life. There is nothing that would make me happier than to lead a trip of Temple Sinai members to Israel. If you will it, it is no dream.

Am I taking a risk today by talking about Israel and all the controversy that surrounds it? I think so. You can prove me wrong, though, and I would thank you for it. You can prove me wrong by responding with thoughtful dialogue instead of angry accusations. You can prove me wrong by continuing the conversation about Israel in our community and in your family. Please, prove me wrong by remembering Israel as our people’s homeland – even when we are frightened, angered or confused by what goes on there.

There is nothing easy about the world we live in, and there is nothing easy about being a Jew and a lover of Israel. On this Yom Kippur, we try to face the challenge of engaging with Israel and bringing our highest values to our relationship with her.

This is the sermon that I gave at the Kol Nidre service at Temple Sinai in Cranston, Rhode Island, on Friday night.

A little while ago in our service, we read a translation of one of the traditional prayers of Yom Kippur. You may have noticed a mark on the translation on page 262, a little circle, that indicates that the translation is not literal.

Here is a little of what the Hebrew on that page means more literally:

“Place Your fear, Adonai our God, upon all of Your works, and Your dread upon all that You have created. Let all Your handiwork fear You, and let them bow down before You…”

Fear of God. Even, the dread of God. This is not an image that most of us find very comforting or desirable on Yom Kippur. I have to admit, I flinch a bit whenever I see the expression, “Fear of God,” but it is a phrase that appears often in Jewish prayer, especially during the High Holy Days. Of all things, why would a loving, nurturing God want me to be afraid? What does it even mean to fear God? The phrase, I believe, is particularly confounding to us because of all the negative associations with have the with emotion of fear. Psychology teaches us that fear is the painful, cringing instinct at the root of neurosis. It is our irrational fears that keep us from experiencing life to the fullest. Fear is the enemy that makes some people quick to overreact to perceived slights, quick to become defensive, quick to feeling guilty, quick to run away from a challenge, quick to assume the worst about others, quick to fall back into bad habits, or quick to deny reality.

So, we have to ask: Is that what God wants? Does God really want us to do God’s will because we are afraid? Does God want to condition us to avoid impulsively some dreadful punishment that God might otherwise inflict upon us?

Part of our problem in understanding, “the fear of God,” I believe, is that we tend to focus on just one kind of fear when we see that phrase. “Fear,” both in Hebrew and in English, can refer to a wide range of experiences.

When a person stands on the edge of the immensity of the Grand Canyon, or looks out over the vastness of the ocean, it is hard not to think about how small and fragile we really are. We realize that we could easily be swallowed up and consumed by that immenseness, both figuratively and literally. That feeling may well be described as fear. It is that slightly disorienting awareness that there are things in the universe that are not only beyond our scope and scale, they are beyond our understanding. That sort of “fear” is what we are talking about when we use the phrase “fear of God.” It’s not about cowering or cringing. It is about the experience of awe and reverence.

And here is how it applies to Yom Kippur: When you find yourself thinking about doing something that you know is wrong, that trembling feeling in your gut is also a kind of fear. Maybe we fear we will damage a valued relationship. Maybe we fear our actions will turn us into the kind of person we don’t want to be. Maybe we just fear getting caught. Maybe it is a little of each of these. It is the quaking, shuddering, skin crawling dread that you feel when you know you are in danger of doing something that might, in the end, consume you. That is also the fear we mean when we talk about “the fear of God.” This fear/dread/reverence/awe occurs in the moment that we recognize ourselves to be in the presence of a great power – not necessarily a power that threatens our bodies, but one that overwhelms our soul. It is not like the fear of an abusive parent’s striking you across the face. It is more like the fear of seeing a beloved parent’s look of disappointment in your actions. It is the the uncomfortable, unnerving and uncommon feeling you get when you realize that there is something more important than you.

This is a kind of fear that we actually can feel good about having. Nobody wants to be the child who can feel no regret in the disappointment of his or her parents. Certainly, no parents want their children to have an ethical and emotional blindness that makes them insensitive to chastisement. We understand that the ability to be aware of the feeling of fearful awe is at the foundation of morality and of having a conscience. It is the primitive, emotional response that makes “right” and “wrong” not just intellectual ideas, but emotion-laden realities that we feel in our kishkes.

It is important to know that this quaking, awesome, reverent fear, is not the only emotion that Jewish tradition wants us to feel about God. Not just on Yom Kippur, but on every day of the year, we recite the passage from Deuteronomy that asks us to “love Adonai our God with all our heart, with all our soul and with all our might.” In Jewish tradition, the “love of God” is usually mentioned in parallel with the “fear of God” as the balancing quality for a complete relationship. Just as children should regard their parents both with love and respect, so it is with a person’s relationship with God.

During most of the year, we recite prayers that talk about God’s eternal love for us and about our love for God. Some of those prayers are present in the liturgy for the High Holy Days, but the balance shifts at this time of year toward the side of “fearing God” rather than “loving God.” The ten days from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur are known in Hebrew as Yamim HaNora’im, the “Days of Fearful Awe.” It is during this time of year that we do not talk so much about God as companion and lover. The High Holy Days’ liturgy is filled instead with images of God as ruler, master and judge.

Why does the tradition emphasize these fearful images of God so much at this time of year? To use a metaphor, it is because we are now in “finals week” of the Jewish spiritual calendar and the big exam is less than twenty-four hours away. Now is the time when we most want to hear the stern voice of God as the clock ticks down to the deadline for atonement. Now is not the time for hearing the loving voice that says that we can always get an extension. This is the time of year when we most want to use images of God that motivate us to action. There are other times of year to imagine God as loving partner; this is the time to imagine God as ruler and judge.

Unfortunately, if you are only in the synagogue during these Days of Fearful Awe, you only hear the stern voice. By way of comparison, it is as if you were to hear only your spouse’s criticism of you and never hear his or her words of love and devotion. That’s not good in a marriage and it’s not great for a relationship with God. But it would not be good, either, to hear only the sweet words and never hear the “tough love” that makes us squirm a bit.

Fear, you see, is not always a bad thing to feel. From a religious point of view, the shuddering fear of awe motivates us to make our best choices in life and to keep ourselves far from temptations that lead us to bad choices. From a scientific perspective, too, fear is not some kind of evolutionary mistake in the way our brains are constructed – far from it. Fear is part of the necessary mechanism for survival.

Fear is the thing that triggers a “fight or flight” response when an animal is confronted by a predator or a life threatening situation. Fear can save us by filling our bodies with the hormones we need to run away as fast as we can, or to defend ourselves with all of our might. Fear is a good thing … if it is triggered by a real threat.

The problem is that many of the things that scare us are not worth the endorphin rush we get when we are frightened. Our brains are wired to experience fear exactly the same way whether the fear is real or imagined.

And the human mind has a remarkable capacity to imagine all sorts of things … and to fear them. Imagination is the ability that allows us to design and build cities, to transform a desert into a vineyard, and to create art. It is one of our most unique traits as a species, one of our greatest tool for achievement, but it can also be a great obstacle.

Think about how easily we turn our imaginings into fear. Think about the way a movie can scare you out of your wits. Think about the way you can lie awake in bed at night worrying about worst-case scenarios that exist only in your mind. Think, also, of how easily our minds fall prey to fear-based prejudices when we believe that we are threatened by people who are different from us, even if we have never experienced any harm from them outside of our imagination. If a person imagines a threat, and becomes preoccupied with the thought of that threat, he or she can be driven to distraction and, ironically, suffer real harm from nothing more than his or her own fear.

Knowing this, explains a lot about the fearful times in which we live. We turn on the television and hear news about ISIS’s beheadings, war in the Middle East, anti-semitism in Europe, and even local news broadcasts driven by the dubious principle, “if it bleeds, it leads.” The advertising industry has long tried to make us afraid of everything from body odor to wearing last year’s fashions.

It has become common for politicians and cable news channels to scare us with stories of about how their opponents will raise our taxes, cut our pensions, allow the borders to be overrun by foreigners, or allow the country to be taken over by rapacious corporations. Our politics have become like the set of a cheap horror film with everyone terrified of what lies behind the next closed door. It would almost be comical, if the consequences weren’t so hurtful for our society.

We have to know that this kind of constant fear is really very bad for us. A person who is constantly frightened by imagined dangers can get stressed out. The constant flood of “fight or flight” hormones poisons our bodies with the chemicals that nature meant to be used only in emergencies. We make ourselves sick and we make bad choices motivated by our least generous, least kind, and most fearful thoughts. That only leads to more fear, more stress, and greater unhappiness. The great American orthodox rabbi, Joseph Soloveitchik, had a good way of explaining how the fear of God, paradoxically, is the antidote to living our modern life of fear. He was once asked by a Jewish psychologist why Jewish tradition talked so much about fearing God, considering how much harm irrational fears can cause. In response, Soloveitchik said, “I would rather have one big fear than a thousand little ones.”

Soloveitchik understood the problem of fear, and he expressed it in the language of God-talk, but it makes sense no matter what language you use. We, as human beings, can make conscious choices about what we shall fear. Shall we live in dread of not impressing our peers with our wealth, or shall we fear not living up to our values? Shall we fear that the government or corporations will come take away our liberties, or shall we fear that we have not done enough to create a just and peaceful world? Shall we fear every perceived slight or blow to our ego, or shall we fear that we have not treated others with dignity and kindness?

Fearing God is a metaphor for setting our priorities in life so that we direct our energies toward what is best within us, not toward our angriest, neediest and most selfish selves. Fearing God does not mean cowering to defend ourselves from divine blows. The fear of God means taking possession of our fears, using the energy to heighten our self-awareness of the choices we make in life and try to do better. And here is how another rabbi expressed this thought: Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav famously taught, “כל העולם כולו גשר צר מאוד והעיקר לא לפחד כלל,” “All the world, all of it, is a very narrow bridge, but the essence of it all is not to fear at all.” Nachman wants to remind us that life is filled with distractions and diversions that can lead us dangerously astray, but we should not fear these things at all. Rather, we should know that there is a path – a bridge, as it were – that can lead us where we are intended to go. Do not fear life’s turmoil, he says, just keep your eyes on the prize and know the path you are on.

That is what we do when we stay close to our values and our highest goals in life. That is what we do when we let go of some of our fears and anxieties and allow our attention to stay focussed on the one big thing that we should stay focused upon – doing what is right, making our world a better place, upholding our values, living with reverence and awe for for that which is beyond.

Is what I am suggesting easy? Not at all. Some find that prayer helps, meditation can help, just taking a little time each day to reflect calmly on the path ahead can help, too. It takes patience to quiet our frantic minds enough to even notice our fears and how they affect our behavior. It takes discipline to make changes in the way we respond to our fears. It requires us to change some of our priorities so we have time to reflect. It also takes a lot of self-forgiveness for the times when we don’t get it right. Even then, we can spend an entire lifetime working to master our fears and still fall short.

However, the effort we expend toward transforming our fears is richly rewarded. The reward is our own happiness (and who doesn’t want to be happier?). By turning away from the thousand fears that send us flying and fighting in a million directions, we give ourselves the opportunity to live the lives that we actually want, not the lives that we are scared into.

I don’t regret that our prayerbook does not translate literally the blessing that asks us to “fear of God.” It would rub me the wrong way to read that on Yom Kippur, or on any day. But I also do not regret that the traditional Hebrew words of the blessing are still there. They are a gentle reminder on Yom Kippur that the trembling, disorienting feeling that we might call fear is something that helps us become the people we want to be. When channeled and directed, it is a force that helps us make wiser choices.

To me, fearing God means taking control of fear. It means distinguishing threats that are real from those that are imagined. It means a release from the pressure always to be better than, richer than, more popular than, or more powerful than somebody else. Most of all, it means noticing that we are not the center of the universe. It reminds us that, in turning our fears over to a power greater than ourselves, we choose our own happiness.

G’mar chatimah tovah. May you be sealed in the Book of Life for a good year.

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This blog is about living a joyful Jewish life and bringing joy to synagogues and the Jewish community. Join the conversation by commenting on posts and sharing your experiences. For more on the topic, read the First Post.